Paradox
by Trekkieb
Summary: Sequel to Backstep. Donovan must race the clock to protect Operation Backstep - and save a friend. Add to the mix a sentinel detective named Jim Ellison and things are bound to get interesting.


**Disclaimer: **Sandburg and Ellison belong to PetFly Productions and Paramount. Parker, Donovan, and the Backstep team belong to Christopher Crowe and Paramount. No money is being made off of this story, and no infringement is intended.   
**Rating: **PG-13. Violence. Swearing   
**Summary: **_The Sentinel/Seven Days crossover _After the events in _Backstep_, Craig Donovan must race the clock to protect Operation Backstep -- and save a friend. Add to the mix a sentinel detective named Jim Ellison, and things are bound to get interesting.   
**Warnings:** Spoilers for "Sentinel Too." 

**Trekkieb's Notes:** I want to say a huge thank you to my good friend Jules. Without her, this story probably would never have been finished. Thanks, girl! You're the best! And also, I want to thank everybody who's so patiently waited for this story. I hope you find it worth the wait. 

Paradox   
written by   
**Trekkieb** and   
**Quiltaday**

  
  
  


Cascade, WA

Once the medical examiner zipped the plastic body bag closed over the dead man's face, he and an assistant lifted the bag and placed it onto the waiting gurney. Curious bystanders stared in morbid fascination as the gurney was wheeled down the steps of Rainier University's Hargrove Hall. The Cascade PD had cordoned off the area in front of the building with yellow tape, but that didn't prevent students and teachers alike from gathering at the perimeters to watch. And gossip. 

Blair Sandburg stood off to the side, detached from the crowd. He quietly watched gurney as it was rolled towards the coroner's wagon. The attendants closed the doors firmly, shutting the ominous black bag from sight. As the vehicle drove away, Jim Ellison slowly approached Sandburg. 

It had been a busy morning, but it wasn't over yet. Not by far. They had statements to give. Evidence to gather. Reports to file – in triplicate. And on top of that, they needed to figure out just whom the dead man was that had shown up in Sandburg's office, alive, only forty minutes ago. Ellison and Sandburg remained silent for some time; together, yet separated by a vast gulf of insecurities, hurt feelings, and betrayed trusts. 

Jim was the first to break the silence. "Hey, what do you say we head home for a bit, then we'll head over to the station and…" The rest of the sentence ended abruptly as he caught the steel-blue glare that just _dared_ him to utter another syllable. _Oops_. It had somehow slipped his mind that _they_ weren't going home to the loft. Sandburg didn't live there anymore. If looks could kill, Ellison would've been dead and buried in two seconds flat. 

"Uh, sure, Jim," Sandburg started, his anger evident in every line of his face. "Let's go home. Oh. No. Wait. I don't _live_ there! That whole thing with you kicking me out, remember? _I_ remember. I guess it must have slipped your mind or something, huh?" 

"Look, Blair, I'm sorry," Jim began, making an attempt to diffuse what had all the signs of becoming a severe blow-up. 

"Well, that just makes everything better, now, doesn't it? What now, we hug and make up? I don't think so." Sandburg's voice rose in volume, and Jim shifted uncomfortably at the curious looks directed their way. "You threw me out, man. You had no right! It was my home as much as yours! You want to talk about trust and betrayal, well let's have at it. Come on, man, let's do this." 

Jim cast a sideways glance at a nearby uniformed cop who was taking too much interest in their conversation. Sensing impending defeat, he did what he could to salvage the conversation and the friendship. "Look, Sandburg, this isn't the time, nor the place..." 

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Sandburg took a step back, hands held up in mock surrender. "Well, _excuse me_, Detective Ellison. How about I just go wait until you tell me when it _is_ the right time, okay? I'll be over there," he said, exaggeratedly pointing to Jim's truck, "eagerly awaiting your beck and call." And with that he roughly pushed past Ellison and stalked to the truck, where he promptly folded his arms across his chest and turned his back to Ellison. 

Watching the furious Sandburg leave, Jim sighed and mumbled sarcastically, "I think that went rather well." 

He'd known that this talk was coming, and that it wouldn't be pretty, but he hadn't thought Sandburg would make him look like an ass in front of his coworkers. The thought suddenly struck him that he, in fact, _was_ an ass. He looked over to where Blair slouched against the Ford, and tried to decide if he should go over there and apologize 

Ellison sighed and glanced in the direction the hearse had gone, at the cops doing crowd control. The situation here was under control. He rubbed his right hand over his hair and winced at the pain of the stitches in his left shoulder. He wished the same could be said for the situation between him and Sandburg.   


Never Never Land, NV

Donovan turned the corner and spotted Olga just leaving her quarters, holding her purse in one hand. He lightly jogged the five or six yards separating them. Olga smiled when she saw him and tucked her short red hair behind one ear. 

Donovan fell into step beside her as she started down the corridor. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively. "You look nice. Going somewhere?" 

She looked down at herself and smoothed a wrinkle out of her knee-length skirt, tugged a little on one cuff of her pale gray silk blouse. "Thank you. Actually, Mr. Parker is taking me to lunch today." 

"Really?" Donovan said, surprised. "What's the occasion?" Frank had been trying to get Olga to go out with him forever, but she had always refuted his advances. 

Olga started to answer, then stopped and shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me," she said simply. "He just asked me if I wanted to have lunch. Bellini's is one of favorite restaurants anyway, so…" She shrugged again. "He was very persuasive." 

"Huh." _Son of a gun._ "Hey, speaking of Frank, have you seen him this morning?" The hall wasn't meant to handle three people side by side, and Donovan brushed shoulders with an orange-clad tech as they passed each other. 

Olga smiled. "No, not yet. Why, has he done something?" 

He shook his head. "That's the thing. I haven't been able to find –" 

Before Donovan could finish his sentence, Talmadge's voice came over the PA system. "Dr. Vukavitch, Captain Donovan, report to Briefing Room Two immediately." There was a slight pause. "There's been a backstep."   


Cascade, WA

The ride to 852 Prospect Avenue was spent in an uncomfortable silence. Neither Ellison nor Sandburg said a word, and in fact hardly looked at one another. 

When they arrived at the loft, Jim unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and looked around as though seeing it for the first time. The place was still completely empty. 

Jim was vaguely aware of why he'd moved the furniture out in the first place – he had felt too closed in, confined. Just why that was, he still didn't know. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure that he wanted to examine the reasons too closely. 

A voice from the hall shook him from his thoughts. 

"Love what you've done with the place." Blair stood just outside the entryway, looking unsure whether or not he actually wanted to enter. He craned his neck around the corner to get a better look and raised an eyebrow at the incredibly spotless floor. After a moment's hesitation, he entered. 

Ellison followed his gaze about the bare loft. "Yeah, well, I was feeling kind of closed in. Overwhelmed." He was at a loss as how to explain it, and even less sure he wanted to. 

"So…what? You wanted me to come back here to give you a hand moving all your stuff back?" Blair asked, staring at Jim. 

The sentinel opened his mouth as if to respond to that remark, but in the end he said nothing. Blair was right. Not about moving the furniture back in, but he was right about Jim wanting something from him. Wasn't that how it had always been? Jim leaned back against the wall and unconsciously plucked at the strap of his arm sling, realizing that Blair didn't _have_ to move back in. 

Seeing the look on Jim's face, Blair argued, "Look, I know that was a low blow, but come on, man, look at it from my point of view. What the hell am I supposed to think? Everything's all about you, man. What does Ellison want, what does Ellison need, do what Ellison says, don't rock Ellison's boat. Well, I've got to tell you, I've had my fill of it. I thought this was about friendship. Not just about Ellison." He didn't yell, but his words had the same impact as if he had. 

"I know. I'm sorry." 

The voice was so quiet that Blair almost missed it. He looked into Jim's eyes and saw honesty there. Remorse. He averted his gaze, not wanting to forgive so easily. "I know you are, Jim," he finally said. But was an apology enough?   


Never Never Land, NV

Olga caught herself nibbling at her thumbnail as she listened to Bradley talk, and she consciously folded her hands on the tabletop. Isaac turned his head towards her and smiled reassuringly, and she knew he had seen her nervousness. The disappearance of the sphere wasn't unusual; it simply meant that in some future timeline, a backstep had been executed. Still, she worried about Parker. "And he hasn't called in yet?" she inquired. 

"No," Bradley negated, "not yet." He pushed back his chair and stood up, and the others straightened up in their chairs. "Once he does, we'll know what the situation is. Until then, we're on alert status. Be prepared to move fast when Frank calls in. We could have hours or minutes to prevent whatever is going to happen." 

When the meeting ended, Donovan touched Olga's arm as she rose from her chair. "I guess this means you and Frank aren't going to go to lunch after all." 

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "It all depends on what happens between now and then."   


Cascade, WA

Chief Medical Examiner Dan Wolfe snapped on a pair of Latex gloves and approached the steel autopsy table. He pulled back the light blue sheet and studied the body with a critical eye. It was the stiff from the Rainier shooting that morning. 

Caucasian male. Early thirties. Brown hair. Most likely cause of death: a bullet to the heart. 

Dan sighed. "Another day, another body. So, Mr. John Doe Number 12, what's your story?" 

He pulled a plastic garbage bag from a shelf along one wall and dumped its contents on an empty countertop. Item by item, he catalogued John Doe's personal effects on a notepad. Later, the intern would type it into the database. 

The first item Dan pulled from the bag was a dark blue jumpsuit that screamed 'government issue.' "Nice suit. What, you escape a chain gang or something?" He sniffed cautiously at a dark smudge on the collar and immediately wrinkled his nose. It smelled like smoke. He shook his head, logged the suit on his notepad, and set it aside. 

The next item was a wristwatch, and a nice one, at that. 

No wallet, no ID. Then again, no pockets on the jumpsuit. 

With no other form of identification available, Dan reached for a small computer pad, the newest gadget purchased by the Department. Slowly he rolled each finger of the right hand onto the pad's touch-screen. The images of the fingerprints appeared on the display, and Dan saved them as a single high-resolution graphic. The device cost a doozie, and he loved using it. 

Finished, the ME walked into his office and sat down in front of his computer. "Well, now, let's see who you are in real life, stranger." Dan brought up the proper program, punched in John Doe's physical characteristics, and scanned in the fingerprints. He then walked back into the lab to finish his preliminary examination. If no emergency cases came up, he'd perform the actual autopsy first thing in the morning…   


Never Never Land, NV

The dial tone sounded in Bradley Talmadge's ear, finally penetrating his bleak thoughts. He looked at the phone receiver in his hand for a moment and absently replaced it in its cradle. His hand lingered there, and he stared at it, noticing for the first time in a long while the wrinkles and the faint scattering of liver spots. It was an old hand. _An old hand for an old man,_ he thought. 

He felt his age today. Felt all the years and all the memories weighing down on him. He'd lost too many friends already. And he'd just lost one more. 

Bradley wished he could just stay there, just hide in his office for a little while. He wasn't a man who hid from his problems, but right now all he wanted to do was close his eyes and pretend he hadn't just received confirmation that Frank Parker was dead. Dead. He tried it, closed his eyes and everything, but it didn't work. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again and glanced at the small, silver clock on his desk. Allison had given it to him. 

Finally, Bradley pushed his chair back and stood up, pointedly ignoring the heaviness in his chest. He'd delayed long enough. It was time to tell the others.   


Cascade, WA

The loft was dim. The only light came from the kitchen. A box of half eaten pepperoni pizza sat open on the hardwood floor of the living room. Another empty pizza box was next to it, and on top of that box was a cardboard bucket holding the remains of a double order of hot wings. A small pile of paper napkins littered the floor nearby. Sandburg and Ellison sat on either side of the mess, leaning against the wall and sipping their drinks in silence. 

A flash of lightning cut through the balcony windows and splashed across the room, creating a surreal display of light and shadows. The dark clouds had started moving in when Megan and Rafe had gone out after the pizza. The thunder had made its presence known in the early afternoon when Jim had driven Blair back to the campus to pick up his car. Now, the rain streamed down the windows like heavy teardrops. 

Simon and the others had left before the rain got really bad. Jim and Blair promised Banks that they would take care of the remaining paperwork regarding the morning's events as soon as possible. 

Sandburg busied himself with getting another drink from the refrigerator, waiting silently, impatiently, for Jim to speak. 

Yeah, he was still pissed off at the guy, but he was also curious. In all the time that Simon had been there, even during his explanation of the standoff with Alex at the university, Ellison had neglected one very important – in Blair's opinion – detail. 

The vial containing the chip that the stranger had given him. 

Coming back into the living room, Sandburg saw that Jim had taken the vial out of his pocket. Carefully, the detective removed the cap and allowed the contents to spill out into his hand. He examined the chip closely. Holding it up for Blair to see, he asked, "What do you make of it?" 

Blair stared at the chip and remembered what the stranger had told him – _"Some people will contact you shortly, within a few days; give this to them."_ It was small, barely the size of a dime. "You know," he began, "I'd be willing to bet that Jack Kelso could figure out how to access it." 

"How?" 

"Well, I'm not positive, but this is about the same size as a memory chip, and it just might fit into one of the simm sockets on a motherboard, and with some creative programming ... Maybe he can access whatever it is." 

"Sounds good, but I don't like the idea of letting someone else have it. Can you do it here, on your laptop?" 

"My laptop's not here. It's back at my office. And no, this is way over my head. I'll call him in the morning. At the least we can find out if he _can_ do it." Sandburg stood up and stretched. "I'm exhausted, so I'm gonna go. See you in the morning." He pulled his coat from its place on the kitchen counter and started for the door. 

Ellison also stood. "Well…you know," he began, waving his good hand in Sandburg's direction, "you can stay here if you want. I mean, it's really coming down out there." With that same hand, he rubbed the back of his neck, watching Sandburg. 

Blair shrugged. "Yeah, uh, thanks, but I think I'll go. Besides, I never was a big fan of sleeping on wood floors." 

The sentinel watched as Sandburg made it to the door. Before he could open the door, though, Jim said, "Chief, wait." 

Blair paused and turned, looking at Jim with an expectant face. After a minute of silence, he asked, "What is it?" 

"I, uh..." Ellison was at a loss for words. Unsure of how to go on, he hoped his partner would do as he always did; pick up on his discomfort and initiate conversation. Sandburg had other ideas. 

"Look, Jim," he said, "I'm tired, I'm irritable, and I'm really not interested in playing this little game right now. Either you have something on your mind and would like to get it off your chest, or let me go home" – _home;_ that made Ellison wince – "and get some sleep. Which is it?" 

Jim turned to gaze out the glass doors leading onto the balcony and rubbed his tired eyes with his good hand. With a defeated sigh, he let them it to his side and said, "I don't get this whole jaguar bit." He paused for a few seconds, then added, "And the whole thing with the wolf, what was that?" 

"I don't know, Jim. You never told me about the wolf. What happened?" 

"It might have been a dream. I only remember bits and pieces. I was in the jungle, and there was this wolf, and I shot it, and it ... It turned into you. I killed it." _I killed you._

"Well, first of all, wolves aren't generally found in the jungle." Blair moved away from the door and into the living room, his curiosity piqued against his will. "It might have something to do with your attitude lately. Or not. I don't know." 

"What do you mean, you don't know?" 

"Well, jeez, Jim, it's not like you share any of this with me or anything. You never tell me anything, so how do you expect me to have any answers?" 

The words hit hard and rang true. Incacha had passed the way of the shaman onto Blair, but he, Jim, had never truly accepted it. He had had his perfect little world, his ideas about life and the way things should be. This sentinel stuff had never been part of that world, but he accepted this…gift…for the most part. But now, now there were animal spirit guides, and weird visions, and conversations with a very dead Chopec shaman. – _"Trust him, sentinel. Give him the chance. Choose, sentinel. Choose to keep him, or lose him forever. But you cannot have it both ways."_

_Trust your guide and give him a chance._ Jim decided that that was what he would do. "Look, you've had a long day, and so have I. Simon's expecting us first thing, so why don't we talk about this later?" Okay, so maybe not right away. But he'd try. 

"Sure, whatever. Later." Blair left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Jim looked around his empty apartment, mentally kicked himself, and began cleaning up the remains of dinner.   


Never Never Land, NV

A mouthful of coffee showered the table. "What the hell is this?" Nate Ramsey said in only the way that an apple pie, all-American bureaucratic stiff could say. He made a face into his dark blue ceramic mug. "This tastes like someone soaked their gym socks in it." He thumped the cup down in disgust, ignoring the backsplash on the tabletop. "Can't they at least make a decent cup of joe around here?" 

Donovan shook his head and smiled at his breakfast companion. The coffee was pretty bad this morning, downright nasty to be truthful, but he wasn't about to admit it to Ramsey. Ramsey was cranky today, and Donovan felt like needling him. So he reached over, picked up his own mug, and with a straight face drained half of the semi-hot liquid. The glare from Ramsey was worth having to swallow the bitter brew. 

Ramsey's sour mood wasn't so unusual. It seemed that he always found something to complain about – and most of the time it was about Parker. But he ran a tight ship as chief of security, and he occasionally showed a wicked sense of humor. Donovan admired that about him. 

Since the meeting earlier that morning, there had yet been no word from Frank. Ramsey made it clear to everyone that he thought Parker was out on the town, spending agency money with the Plutonium card and having a grand time. 

"He's probably already taken care of the mission," Ramsey speculated, pushing his plate away with a scowl. "I bet he's hanging out at a bar with some floozy with purple hair and pink hot pants. " 

Donovan coughed into his fist, and tilted his chin up once Ramsey looked at him. 

"What?" Ramsey asked, then followed Donovan's gaze, turned his head, and looked over his shoulder. Olga was standing just a few feet behind him, and from the stern look on her face she had heard his disparaging remarks about Frank. 

Olga looked at Donovan, who tried hard to smother his smile. "Bradley has called a meeting," she said. She threw a frosty look at the silent Nate Ramsey and walked out of the mess hall. 

Donovan remained in his seat for a second until his brain processed what she had just said. A meeting. A meeting meant Parker must have called in. He tossed his napkin down on the table and pushed his chair back. Nathan's actions mirrored his own, and Donovan slapped him on the back as he rounded the table. "Good going, Ramsey," he teased. 

Ramsey didn't respond, and Donovan could tell that he was once again in his all-business, no-nonsense frame of mind. 

In the hallway, Donovan caught up with Olga. She didn't slow down, but he asked, "Do you know what's going on? Has Frank finally checked in?" 

She shook her head mutely and quickened her pace. 

* * *

"Please sit down, people." Bradley Talmadge sat at the head of the heavily polished table and surveyed his team. They all gave him their full attention, anxious to hear what news he had. 

"What's going on, Bradley?" Isaac asked. 

Talmadge nodded at him and then said to the group, "We've been keeping an eye out and just received notification that Frank's fingerprints were run through the system." 

"Figures!" Ramsey snorted. "He's probably gone and gotten himself arrested." 

Talmadge silenced him with a look. He continued, "The search originated in Cascade, Washington. We sent inquiries and faxes of Frank's photo to the local police departments." Now came the difficult part. He looked each person in the eye. "There was a positive identification to the photo with the Cascade coroner's office." 

Silence blanketed the room, thick and oppressive like a vacuum. 

Finally, Donovan cut the vacuum with a question nobody wanted to ask. "What are you saying, Bradley?" 

"They received a John Doe yesterday…involved in some kind of a shooting. Details are sketchy..." 

Donovan closed his eyes, and Olga – distressed – asked, "Do we know for sure?" 

Bradley saw the look on Olga's face and wished he could take everything back. Say it was all a mistake, a lie, a cruel joke. "I'm sorry," he said instead. 

Although he tried to keep an air of distance firmly in place, truth be known, Bradley was attached to every person in Alpha Team. He was aware of the personal sacrifices that each of them had made when they joined Operation Backstep. And now this…. 

He cleared his throat. "Ramsey, Donovan, you two will go and claim Parker's body. Above all else, retrieve the chip. And also find out as much as you can about the circumstances of Frank's…death. We still need to know what his mission was and if he completed it. You'll fly into Seattle-Tacoma International but will have to drive to Cascade. There will be a car waiting there for you. Any questions?" 

There were no questions, so Talmadge added, "Olga, John has tracked the sphere to a wooded area just outside Cascade. He can fill you in." Ballard nodded. "I want you two to go and handle its retrieval. Use whatever resources you need to." 

"Yes, sir," Olga said quietly. 

Bradley's heart went out to her. With the possible exception of Donovan, she knew Parker better than anyone, and this would be hard on her. 

It would be hard on all of them. 

But they had a job to do. They held the security of the entire nation in their hands. There would be time to grieve later. 

Taking a fortifying breath, Bradley said brusquely, "Good. Your plane leaves in less than an hour, gentlemen. Don't be late." 

Soon the room was empty but for Talmadge and Mentnor. The two old friends continued to sit at the long table. Neither said a word. Neither needed to. 

* * *

Outside in the hallway, Olga Vukavitch leaned against the wall, covered her face with her hands, and cried. Blinking back his own tears, Craig Donovan stepped up, put both his arms around her, and held her tight.   


Cascade, WA

"Well? Can you do it?" 

"Can I have some breathing room, please? Take a chill pill or something, Blair," Jack Kelso shot back in irritation. 

When the pre 7:00 AM phone call had interrupted his sleep, Jack had been quite annoyed. When he discovered that the person calling was Blair Sandburg, with _way_ too much energy for such an early hour, he had been even more annoyed. That soon dissipated, however, once Blair told him about the previous day's events. Jack had heard a sketch of it on the news, but the information about the microchip was new. He quickly agreed to meet Blair at his Rainier office, where Blair had begged, pleaded, or stolen – Kelso didn't want to know which – a brand-new computer from the CIS department. Much more high power than Sandburg's own computer. 

Now, trying to ignore the fidgeting Sandburg, Jack concentrated on what he was doing. Adapting the computer to the chip was a bit tricky. In addition to needing to regulate the incoming power, rerouting the CPU's start-up and reassigning the task manager was important. While he was sure he could access the data, doing so without melting the sensitive chip was easier said than done. 

Jack maneuvered his wheelchair around the desk, reconnecting various cables. Silently, he sent up a prayer as he powered up the computer, hoping that the settings and adaptations would hold. Holding his breath, he began entering commands. A sudden wash of hot air on the back of his neck caused him to look up and growl, "Blair..." 

"Okay, okay, I'm waiting over here." Sandburg pointed vaguely to a spot in the corner and went and stood there. 

Amazingly still. 

For a period of five whole seconds. 

"Are you sure..." He was stopped by a patient yet stern look from Kelso. "Sorry," he mumbled, "It's just that – man! – I really want to know who this guy was. Where did he come from? Why was he in my office? How did he know what Alex was doing there? I mean, the guy died to save me, and I have no idea why." 

Jack listened why he worked. He knew all about wanting answers, about being in the dark. He'd had entirely too much of it during his career. That was why he had written his expose on the Agency. There were just too many secrets, too many lies…. It made him sick. 

A beep from the computer caught Jack's attention. "We're in," he announced. 

"We're in?" Sandburg repeated. 

"Well, sort of. It's encoded. I still have to get through that." 

"How long will that take?" 

Kelso took a deep breath. "Let's find out." 

* * *

"Got anything on the John Doe from yesterday yet?" Ellison asked, moving over to stand next to the right of the medical examiner. 

Dan Wolfe didn't look up from his task. "Well, there was an interesting tattoo on his left forearm." He withdrew an organ from the abdominal cavity of the deceased woman he was working on and set it in a nearby stainless steel basin. "A barcode." 

Jim mentally filed away the information. "Anything else?" he asked. 

"Nope." No further explanation. 

"Come on, Wolfe – " 

"Heads up!" Wolfe interrupted Ellison's protest as he raised the basin – organ and all – over Ellison's head and handed it to his laboratory assistant. "The usual," he told the petite blonde woman, and she nodded and left. Wolfe sighed. "Look, Ellison, if you insist on badgering me, then here, hold this." 

Before he could protest, Detective James Ellison found himself holding a rounded, rust colored _something_. "Uh, I ... Umm..." Jim looked around for somewhere to set it. To his right was a tray holding several medical instruments and a small stack of stainless steel dishes similar to the one Wolfe had just sent on its way. Without asking, Jim dropped the organ into the top dish, tremendously relieved that he was wearing rubber gloves. "Look, Wolfe, couldn't you just..." 

Waving his hands about while talking was a bad idea, because he immediately found himself holding yet another internal organ. Ellison hastily dropped it in with the previous one. Pulling the gloves off with an irritated snap, he got the hint. "Thanks for nothing," he muttered as he stalked out of the room. 

Wolfe looked up, attempting an innocent and surprised look on his face. "Wait," he called out mischievously. "Couldn't you just hold this for me?" He held a handful of viscera out to the retreating detective. Laughing when he got no response, he dumped it into a bowl and continued with his work. 

Ellison ignored Wolfe's catty request. The coroner had a warped sense of humor, and Jim was in anything but a playful mood. 

The results of the fingerprinting were due back soon, and depending if there was a positive match, the task of locating and notifying the John Doe's family would begin. As well as gathering as much information as possible as to why the hell he had been at Blair Sandburg's office yesterday morning. 

A short series of beeps from within Wolfe's office caught Jim's attention as he passed the closed door. He listened closely and heard a slow, steady clicking sound. It took him only a minute to realize that the sound was the fax machine printing – printing out what he hoped was the search result he'd just asked Wolfe for. Without knocking, Ellison opened the door to Dan's office and stepped inside. He didn't think the ME would mind – besides which, Wolfe was too busy to notice if Ellison helped himself to some information. The fax finished printing and returned to silence. 

Jim snatched the sheet of paper from the tray and read aloud, "Francis Bartholomew Parker." It didn't ring any bells, not that he expected it to. He had never seen the John Doe before in his life. Jim scanned the rest quickly; the printout further noted that Parker was a Nevada resident, and gave his date of birth and social security number. 

Jim replaced the printout in the tray of the fax machine and scribbled down the information onto a piece of notebook paper. Folding and pocketing the paper, he glanced at his watch and headed out the door.   


Cascade, WA

Nathan Ramsey pulled the rental car into the parking lot of the Cascade Medical Examiner's Office and cut the engine. He and Donovan got out of the car, and Ramsey slammed his door shut. 

It had not been a good trip. The flight over had experienced major air turbulence. Then, at the rental agency, a bubble gum popping, nose ring wearing trainee had rented out their reserved car to someone else. That had cost them an extra half hour, and with the hour drive to Cascade, it was now almost noon. 

They started up the steps, both men reaching for the door at the same time. Donovan ignored the sour glance directed his way and entered first. 

The front area was empty, and the receptionist's counter was deserted. Donovan looked at Nate and shrugged. He tapped a little bell on the counter a few times. "Hello?" he called, looking for any sign of life. 

As if by magic, a man with long, dark hair, wearing a white lab coat and holding a sandwich, appeared. "Yes?" he asked. His nametag identified him as Dr. Wolfe. 

"We're here to ID a body," Ramsey stated curtly. 

Wolfe pulled up a chair at the counter and began tapping the keyboard, occasionally glancing up at the computer screen. 

"Male or female?' he asked. 

"Male," Donovan answered. "His name's Frank Parker. He came in as a John Doe." 

"Oh, yeah, him," Wolfe said, nodding at his computer. He turned to them and added, "Okie dokie. Follow me, please." He walked down the short, tiled hallway, into the cold room, and led them over to a wall of drawers. He located the right one, then pulled it open. "Who's behind door number one?" He stepped back so they could see. 

It took less than a second to verify that it was indeed Frank. "Damn," Donovan whispered, staring into the familiar face, gray and still now. He folded his arms over his chest. Deep down he had held onto a small shred of hope that the man they came here to see would turn out not to be Frank Parker. Wishful thinking. It was Frank. Even Ramsey looked depressed. Looking at the medical examiner, Donovan nodded. "It's Frank," he said. 

Shaking himself out of glum thoughts, Ramsey asked Wolfe, "Where are his things? His clothing and any other personal belongings?" 

"Over here." Wolfe led them to a set of filing cabinets. It had a few plastic garbage bags on it. He took one down and emptied its contents on a counter. Hearing the bell ring again, he turned to leave. 

"Hey, wait," Donovan said. Wolfe turned. "What happened? How did he die?" 

The guy shrugged and stuck his hands into his coat pockets. "Two slugs – one in the back, one through the heart. As for what happened…you'd have to talk to the cops. All I know is there was a shooting over at the college. Your friend and a wanted female criminal both ended up here." With that, he turned and headed for the front office. 

Ramsey rummaged through the assorted articles, looking for one item in particular. He didn't find it. Looking again to be sure, he said, "It's not here. The microchip's not here." 

Donovan and Ramsey stared at each other. Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. 

* * *

"I don't believe it." 

Sandburg uncrossed his cramped legs and hopped down from the small table in his office. "Did you get in?" he asked, peering over Kelso's shoulder. Kelso didn't immediately answer. "Well? Jack? Hey, man, what's wrong?" 

Jack Kelso sat staring at the screen, oblivious to the person hovering behind him. "They did it." He was dumfounded. They did it. They had actually made it work. He scanned the information that had taken him nearly four hours to decode, devouring every word, every detail. They had made it work, and it was active. 

The chip itself didn't say all that much. Just a concise report about somebody named Parker's prevention of the murder of a Rainier anthropologist…and the murderer's – Alex Barnes – subsequent release of VBX over Texas…ten thousand people dead. _Oh my God_. Jack stared at the information, his mind reeling. It was all crystal clear. The project. Mentnor. Everything. What's more, it had saved Blair's life. 

Blair. Jack glanced over and saw the raised eyebrows and inquisitive face. "I got in," he responded belatedly. _More than anyone would have expected._ Turning away from the screen to face Sandburg, he took a breath and then began. 

"Let me first tell you what this thing actually says. The guy's name was Parker. And his mission was to track you down at your office here at school, prevent Alex Barnes from whacking you, and apprehend her. She supposedly released a nerve gas over Texas, killing thousands. The mission was last minute, and he didn't have time to contact his people until after everything was taken care of." 

Sandburg sat in a chair next to Kelso. He looked confused. "I don't understand. What is this? Some kind of joke?" 

"No, Blair," Jack said excitedly. "This is gonna sound crazy, but just listen. About ten years back, I worked with a guy named Mentnor on a top-secret project called Backstep. Very hush hush. They had the technology to theoretically send a person back in time, but their pilots of this machine, the sphere, kept dying or disappearing. I only worked there for about a year ... but they must have found someone who could survive the jump back!" He turned eagerly to his computer and began typing furiously. 

Puzzled, Blair leaned back in his chair. "This can't be real… Time travel?" 

"Somehow they managed to work out all the bugs. God, do you know what this means?" 

Sandburg shook his head. "What?" 

"It means they could have done this before. Hundreds of times." At this realization, Jack frowned. "It means they've been screwing with our lives. Who knows what could've – _has_ – happened, and we don't even know it. Man, I guess my tell all book wasn't so tell all after all, huh?" 

Time travel. Frank Parker. Spheres. Time travel. Multiple lives. VBX gas. Time travel. Alex. Sandburg moved towards the window and stared out over the fountain, the centerpiece of the university. It all seemed so unreal. And yet…he remembered what the guy – Parker – had said to him in his office: _"…if you'd rather be dead, then that's your problem. I can just wait outside and grab her after she dumps your body in the fountain and walks away..."_

He could have died. 

He was _supposed_ to die. 

He didn't die. 

At that moment, Jim Ellison knocked on the office door and entered without waiting for a response. Looking curiously at Sandburg and Kelso, he asked, "What's up? Someone die?" 

Blair looked over from his seat at the window. "Yeah, me," he responded cryptically. He returned his gaze out the window, oblivious to the questioning gaze Jim directed at Kelso. 

"Uh, anyway," Jim continued, when no answers seemed immediately forthcoming, "I found out who this guy is." 

With a sigh, almost of irritation, Jack pushed back from the computer and looked at Ellison. "His name is Frank Parker," he said. "And you don't know the half of it." He motioned to a nearby chair, the one that Sandburg had been sitting in only a little while ago. "Take a load off, and I'll fill you in." 

* * *

Three blocks from the campus, Donovan's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his coat pocket with one hand and flipped it open while he made a left turn on Stansfield. 

"Craig," Talmadge's voice said as soon as the line was open – no pleasantries. 

_Uh oh_, Craig thought. "What's wrong?" he asked. 

"Is Ramsey with you?" 

"No," Donovan answered. "He went to talk to the cops." He listened as Talmadge filled him in and mentally cursed. Things just kept getting worse and worse. 

An outside computer had accessed the chip. They all knew what that meant. If that information got into the wrong hands… it was all over. Their careers. The backstep program. NNL. Everything. The goddamn President didn't even know about what happened at NNL. How would the public feel about that? 

_Angry_, Donovan thought. _That's how._

Besides which, they still didn't know if Frank had completed his backstep mission successfully or not. Every second ticked towards the possibility of a nuclear attack, an assassination, or the collapse of a nation. 

He tuned in again as Talmadge said, "The good news is that the instant the encryption was tampered with, the alert beacon in the microchip was triggered." He added, "It's coming from an office in Hargrove Hall, at Rainier University. We're working on narrowing it down." 

Donovan nodded although Talmadge couldn't see him. "I'm on it, sir. I'm almost there, in fact. I'll call back in a few." He closed the line. 

He was less than a minute away. Donovan pressed his foot to the accelerator and urged the rental car to go faster. Hargrove Hall was easy to locate. The parking lot was full, so Donovan parked illegally in a nearby delivery zone. 

He stepped out into the afternoon breeze and punched in the speed dial for NNL. The comm officer quickly transferred him to Talmadge's line. "Talk to me," Donovan said. He could hear noise in the background and knew he was on the speakerphone. 

Using NNL's top of the line computers, they'd managed to extrapolate the exact coordinates from which the signal originated. With an easily obtained schematic of the building, it was only a matter of seconds before they determined which office the signal was coming from. 

Talmadge read him the office number and gave him directions, and Donovan quickly navigated the hallways, ignoring the curious looks his haste drew. 

When he got there and jimmied the lock open, the office was empty. 

"Bradley, there's no one here." 

"What about the chip?" Talmadge asked. 

"I don't know. I don't know. The computer's still on, though." 

There was a moment's pause, and then Talmadge came back on the line. "The signal has stopped." 

Ballard came on the line. "Um, guys, that beacon can only be turned off by someone familiar with our technology." 

_Shit!_

"I don't need to tell you how serious this is, Craig," Talmadge said quietly. 

"No, sir." Donovan ended the call and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He moved to the office's one window and scanned the lawns and the walkways, searching for – what? Then his eyes landed on a familiar face, and he froze. 

There were three men talking next to a pick-up truck in a close-by parking lot. One man was in a wheelchair. Another man had long hair. And the third man was James Ellison. 

_Captain_ James Ellison.   


Never Never Land, NV

"We've got a situation here, people," Talmadge said gruffly. He pulled a cigar from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and almost lit it with his silver plated lighter before he thought better of it. He set the lighter on the table. 

"What has the panel said?" Olga asked, leaning forward and folding her hands on the table in front of her. 

"Kelso is too much of a risk. He worked with Isaac on Backstep before I arrived," Talmadge explained. He looked at Mentnor. "Isaac? Can you fill us in a little bit on Kelso's history here?" 

Isaac stood up slowly and used a remote control to turn on the TV display screen. A picture of Jack Kelso stared back at Alpha Team. Isaac looked around the table as he spoke. "Jack Kelso was a good man with a bright mind," he began. "He was chief of security before you, Nate." He nodded at Ramsey. "At first, he was excited about the prospect of Backstep. But...he changed. Became bitter, cynical. He was here only a year before he transferred out." He sat down wearily, and Talmadge took charge once more. 

"We cannot trust Kelso with the chip. The book he wrote exposing certain CIA secrets has the panel worried that he might just decide to write one on Backstep." 

"An act of spite?" Olga asked. 

"Not entirely," Mentnor supplied. "He disagreed with the ethics behind time travel. I don't think he would hesitate to expose us to the public – for their own good, he would say." 

"Why don't we have someone bring him in for formal questioning?" Donovan asked absently, tapping the eraser end of a pencil lightly against the tabletop. 

Ramsey answered before Bradley could. "This Kelso's ex-CIA, a pro. He won't crack." 

"Well," Ballard, speaking up for the first time in a while, "why don't they just…?" He glanced at the others with eyebrows raised inquiringly. 

"Have him killed?" Talmadge supplied. John nodded. "Again, too much of a risk. He has contacts in the CIA. There's no way to know for sure if he's told anyone about the chip." 

No one said anything, and Talmadge continued: "The panel has authorized a backstep. It's a go." He looked at Donovan. "Can you handle it, Craig?" 

Donovan didn't hesitate. "I can." 

"Good. Olga, you work with Craig. John, is the sphere back together yet?" 

"Almost finished," Ballard said. "Just a few more hoses to reconnect." 

Talmadge stood up and looked each of them in the eye. Confidence and determination stared back at him, and he smiled. "Okay people, let's get to work. We've got a job to do." 

* * *

For the rest of that day and all of the next, Donovan practiced in the simulator. He had to do this right. It was the only chance they had to protect Backstep. To bring Frank back. 

Donovan had a secret, but he didn't feel guilty. He felt relieved. He hadn't told anyone that he'd seen Kelso and Ellison at the university. In all likelihood, Ellison had some knowledge as to the whereabouts of the chip. Hell, maybe he even _had_ the chip. But Donovan didn't care. He didn't want that chip found. 

If they found the chip, then it was possible – probable – that heavy-duty damage control could contain any possible repercussions of the whole situation. 

And Frank Parker would stay dead. 

As he battled the jerking-twisting-wrenching control stick, struggling to attain as smooth a trajectory as possible, Donovan mentally reviewed his plan. Backstep. Go to Rainier. Wait for Alex Barnes and Parker to show up. Stop Alex Barnes. Save Parker. 

Piece of cake. 

The hardest part would be the actual backstep. He'd trained for it, in the event that a backup chrononaut would be needed, but he had never actually backstepped. 

The control stick slipped out of his grasp, and the simulator went wild, lurching frantically from side to side. He would've been thrown from his seat if not for the safety harness. "Damn it!" Donovan yelled, smacking his fist into the consol. If this had been the real thing, there was no telling where he'd have ended up – a hundred feet underground or a hundred miles out in space. 

Neither one was a viable option. 

"Maybe we should take a break," Olga said over the intercom, concern in her voice. 

Donovan shook his head angrily, not angry at Olga but at himself. "No. I can do this. Just give me a minute." He drew a deep breath, flexed his hands, and then said, "Okay, hit it." 

* * *

The next morning, Saturday, Donovan suited up and walked into the hangar. He watched anxiously as a trio of techs finished last minute preparations on the sphere. The sphere looked even more daunting when he knew _he_ was the one about to hurtle through space and time in it. 

_Get a grip, Donovan_, he told himself. 

"Craig!" It was Olga. She hurried up to him and pulled him into a quiet corner. He followed willingly. "Are you ready?" she asked. 

"As I'll ever be." 

Olga looked into his eyes and said determinedly, "You can do it." Then she leaned forward quickly and kissed him on the cheek. "Give that to Mr. Parker for me," she whispered. 

"Okay," he said dubiously, "but I don't think it'll be quite the same coming from me." 

She smiled but didn't respond, just picked up his hand and squeezed it warmly. Craig's heart melted a little bit, and he squeezed her hand in return before releasing it. She turned and walked back to the control center. 

Donovan climbed into the sphere and strapped himself in. The techs sealed the door after him, and a flutter of anxiety beat like wings against his stomach. No more simulations. This was the real thing. He took a cleansing breath and focused his mind entirely on the job at hand. 

"Reactor at seventy percent," Olga announced. 

Talmadge's voice came over the speakers. "Good luck, Craig." 

"Thank you, sir. I just may need it." 

"Reactor at one hundred percent – Engage!" 

Donovan slapped the engage button forcefully and gripped the control stick with both hands. His heart was pounding, and he breathed slowly and deeply to slow it down. The technique didn't work. He was too geared up, too nervous. 

_Here we go_, he thought as the trip began. 

The next sixty seconds were a blur of concentration. He fought to keep the sphere under control. It was a demanding task, but, peripherally, he was aware of other things. A sense of lightness, buoyancy, despite the fact that he was pressed into his seat by gravitational forces at work. 

Cold. 

Heat. 

Pain. 

Exhilaration. 

And then it was over. 

The sphere hit the ground, and the impact rattled Donovan's teeth, sending a faint vibration throughout his limbs. He sat still for only a moment, hands still locked around the control stick, and then forced his mind into gear and quickly unbuckled the safety harness. He checked the instrument panel. 

12:08 AM, Wednesday morning. Donovan frowned. He was supposed to arrive Tuesday evening. "Great," he scolded. "I guess that's what you get when don't wait for the fuel to recharge all the way." Wednesday morning was cutting it pretty close. Too close. 

He hit the hatch release and stumbled out of the big blue time machine, his legs still a little shaky, rubbery. It took only a second to remove the large protective helmet that he wore. He grinned and then laughed, breathing in the cool night air. "I did it!" he shouted to the world at large. But as he studied his surroundings, his sense of elation faded dismally. 

Trees. Trees everywhere. Behind him, in front of him, around him. The sphere hadn't landed where it was supposed to land. It was _supposed_ to land in a small park in the city of Cascade, giving him plenty of time to call for backup and complete the mission. But this was no small city park… 

He sighed and retrieved a small black duffel bag from the sphere. It contained a compass, a map of Washington, an NSA-model handheld GPS system, his gun plus extra clip, and a cell phone. You never could tell with the cell phone – sometimes the circuits fried during a backstep and sometimes they didn't. One look at the melted plastic phone casing, and Donovan knew it was a lost cause. 

_Not a major problem_, he decided. This GPS device was specifically tailored to withstand the trip. In less than two minutes, using the device along with the map, he had located his exact position. 

The good news was that he wasn't too far from a major highway. 

The bad news was that it was a good three-hour drive to Cascade. 

He'd be cutting it too damned close. 

Doffing his orange protective suit and shouldering the bag, Donovan started out in the direction of the highway, moving at a brisk pace. 

_Just like boot camp_, he thought. _Piece of cake_. 

* * *

Detective James Ellison paced his apartment restlessly. From room to room, like a wary cat in the jungle, he sought the source of his distress. So far, no luck. The sentinel went to the balcony doors and opened them, breathing in the moist night air. Usually, this relaxed him, but not tonight. 

He jumped slightly at a nearby noise; there was someone approaching the door to the loft. Who would be visiting at three-thirty in the morning? Simon? Blair? A quick investigation revealed neither the scent of Simon's cigars nor Sandburg's herbal shampoo. Quietly, warily, he moved towards the door, extending his hearing to the hallway outside. All he heard was breathing, a heartbeat, both regular and steady. Before the visitor could knock, Jim opened the door – and found himself face to face with the last person in the world he'd expected to see. 

"Donovan!" The name slipped in surprise from his lips, and memories flashed quickly in his mind's eye as he stared at a man that he'd only had the displeasure of meeting once before, in another place and another lifetime. 

_The team of men moved silently and quickly. Their camouflage blended perfectly with their surroundings. Their movements were fluid and well coordinated, the result of years of rigorous training. The humid jungle heat seemed to have little effect on them as they moved into position._

_Captain Ellison crouched down low behind a foliage cover and signaled his second in command over. Michael Bane silently made his way across the distance and kneeled next to his commander. Without waiting for Ellison to ask, he reported, "Tyler and A.J. are in position to the north. Ryce and David are to the east, and Juan and Bernie are to the west. Johnny and Kyle are pulling sniper duty. Everyone's set."_

_"Good." Ellison nodded his approval. "Tell them to wait for my command."_

_"Yes, sir." Bane quickly retreated back to his position and relayed the order._

_Pulling out his binoculars, the army captain surveyed the target. An assortment of tents and makeshift buildings stood approximately two hundred yards away in a slight depression in the land. There was no sign of the Rangers; they were all expertly hidden. Training the binoculars back onto the camp, Ellison studied the compound. Several men were patrolling the perimeters, and about twenty more were milling about. All were visibly armed and similarly dressed in the uniform of the local military. However, according to intelligence reports, they were in fact guerrillas, selling weapons to the warring locals on both sides._

_"Now!" Ellison barked._

_The snipers – John Darrow and Kyle Barnfather – immediately took out the patrols. When the last one dropped heavily to the ground, the Rangers burst from the jungle, each moving in on his appointed target area. Ellison ran down the incline, weapon at the ready, towards the second shanty on the left. Recon had proven that this was where the stockpile of explosives and munitions were being held, and the objective was to separate the guerillas from their weapons – at whatever cost._

_At the sudden onslaught, the renegades scattered for cover, ducking into or behind the flimsy wooden buildings and shooting at anything and everything._

_What happened next was a blur to most of the individuals involved. Out of nowhere, more armed men poured into the camp. Men in uniforms. They opened fire at the rebels, and complete chaos ensued._

_The moment of confusion was all the rebels needed. They seized the opportunity and began to fight back in earnest._

_Ellison watched it all fall apart around him. What was going on? Who were these people? "Fall back!" he screamed into his radio. The tables were turned, the rules changed, and it was hard to discern the different players, let alone which side they were on._

_Damn it! Ellison watched in horror as several high-powered bullets ripped through the chest of the youngest member of his team, A.J. Jenson. Surprisingly, A.J. remained standing. He stared disbelievingly at the crimson stain spreading across his chest. Finally, after ten seconds of eternity, he fell to the ground and didn't move._

_Ellison felt little satisfaction when he and another, an African American newcomer, pumped several rounds each into the man who shot A.J. For the first time, Jim got a clear look at the new arrivals. The black man moved closer into the fray, and the Captain recognized his uniform as belonging to the Navy SEALs. What the hell are they doing here? But the thought was interrupted as he watched Tyler Kevins and the SEAL drag A.J.'s limp form behind cover._

_Shit. Ellison swiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Shit._

_A walk in the park, they said. Like taking candy from a baby, they said. My ass, Ellison thought venomously. Storm the compound, subdue the renegades, and then radio for relief to pick them up. That was it. That should have been it, but no. Instead, these SEALs showed up and ruined the strike, and now one of his men was possibly dead. Someone was going to have hell to pay for this._

_Ellison hurried over to where Ryce and Tyler crouched next to A.J. He openly ignored the SEAL. One look at the faces of his men told him all he needed to know. The kid was deathly pale and still, and though his eyes were open, he did not appear to see._

_A.J. turned his head towards his captain, and – with some difficulty – focused his eyes. "It's ... bad ... isn't it?" he gasped out between labored breaths._

_"No, no it's not. You're gonna be okay. Do you hear me? You're gonna be okay," Ellison said as he grasped the young soldier's outstretched hand. He felt useless as he watched the boy's blood seep into the ground._

_"It's been an honor, sir ... serving with you. Tell my ... mom ...I love her. She ... she ... didn't want me to join ... the army. Please, tell her…." Those last words were barely a whisper as A.J.'s strength left him. As he exhaled his final breath, his grasp loosened and his hand slipped to the ground. Ellison gently closed the young man's eyes._

_"Don't worry, A.J. I will," Jim assured. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. I'm sorry, son._

_Rising, he stalked over to the unwelcome group of newcomers, who had – along with his men – quickly subdued the rebels. He scanned the patches and insignias until he determined which one was the commander. His eyes landed on the tall African American man that had helped pull A.J. to safety. "I'm Captain Jim Ellison, and I'm only gonna ask this once." Twin ice-blue lasers pierced the Naval commander as Ellison angrily demanded, "What the fuck is going on here?"_

_"Captain Craig Donovan, Navy SEALs --" the man began, but Ellison cut him off._

_"Well, Captain Donovan, you wanna tell me just what the hell you think you're doing here, screwing up my mission?" Although he was a mere inch taller, Ellison, in his anger, towered over Donovan._

_"I had orders," Donovan stated matter-of-factly, his brown gaze studying Ellison._

_That only made Jim angrier. "The hell you did! Because of you, one of my men is dead!" With that accusation, Ellison let loose his growing rage in one hard, swift blow. His fist caught Donovan right across the jaw._

_Donovan stumbled back a few feet but didn't fall. A couple of his men started forward at this attack on their commanding officer, but he raised one hand to stop them, using the other to rub his jaw._

_He drew himself up to his full height and stared directly into Ellison's blue eyes, his own dark ones flashing. He spoke in a cold, hard voice: "Look, Ellison. Let me set you straight on one thing. Your man's death is not my fault, or the fault of my men. I had orders from Admiral Trevors himself for my team to come here to Nicaragua. I don't know what's going on here. Obviously someone, somewhere made a mistake. But the mission we set out to do was accomplished. I'm truly sorry for the loss of your soldier, but I'm sure he knew the risks before coming on such a mission."_

_Ellison seethed, his face a mask of cold hatred. "A mistake," he snorted. What kind of people could make such a blatant error? Then it hit him. Oh, God. He had thought that they were only rumors. Was it possible? No. He shook his head slightly. They were just rumors. Admiral Trevors and General Brigham wouldn't do this – wouldn't play with men's lives to further their own petty feud… He shook his head again, angrier this time._

_He pointed a finger at Donovan's chest. "You and your men better stay away from me. After our relief gets here, I ever see your face again ... Well, you just better hope I don't. You hear me?"_

Ellison stared at Donovan in surprise, remembering the last time they had spoken. He was completely unprepared for the left hook that hit him under his chin and sent him reeling back into the apartment. He stifled a cry as he landed on his injured shoulder, still healing from the bullet wound he'd received in the corner grocery store just the other day. He quickly reached behind himself, to his holstered weapon. But before he could bring the gun around front, it was kicked out of his hand – not hard enough to damage the hand, but hard enough to hurt. Jim climbed to his feet, murder in his eyes. 

Donovan's voice was light, but held an undertone of seriousness. "I owed you that." 

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

"It's about Blair Sandburg." 

* * *

"Stubborn ass," Blair Sandburg muttered to himself. He slammed a small stack of books onto a chair as he searched for a pen that he _knew_ had just been on his desk. "Stubborn, pig-headed mule…" 

He pulled open a drawer, thinking that maybe he'd brushed the pen inside. There were, of course, other pens that he could use, but he wanted that _particular_ pen; it was _blue_, and the ink flowed _really_ well, and he'd just had the damn thing a _minute_ ago—"Ouch!" 

He'd accidentally slammed the drawer shut on the fingers of his right hand. Rubbing the sore fingers, Blair took a deep breath, noticing for the first time what a mess he'd made of his office. 

"Okay, Blair," he said to himself. "Time to chill out. Just use another pen." He sat down, scooted his chair up to his desk, and pulled the stack of papers closer. Substitute pen in hand, he closed his eyes and whispered, "I am relaxed. I am…relaxed." Then he opened his eyes and started reading the first paper he grabbed. 

After about five minutes, however, the absolute quiet distracted him from his work. He was probably the only fool still working at – he looked at his watch – almost three in the morning. He'd been so busy, so excited about discovering Alex's sentinel abilities, that he'd neglected his work. And he'd promised his students that they'd get their papers back tomorrow – well, today, actually. 

So, determined to finish these remaining fifteen papers before going home – if a motel could be called home – he turned on the radio for company, turned the ringers off the office phone and his cell, and got back to work. 

* * *

The streets were empty. No big surprise; it was very early, or very late, depending on how you looked at it – and a weekday to boot. Only occasionally did they see another car, and never two at a time. 

At a stoplight, Donovan studied the man in the driver's seat. 

Ellison had discarded his sling before leaving his apartment, and he now tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He scowled at the red light. "Tell me again what we're doing?" he asked. "I called his office. Sandburg's not even there." 

Donovan shook his head and glanced at his watch. "I think he is. And even if he's not, he will be soon. " 

In the other timeline, before the backstep, Ramsey had learned from the cops that the shooting took place early Wednesday morning – just after dawn. It was almost four; they had just about an hour until sunrise. 

Donovan continued, "Alex Barnes is on her way to steal a potent nerve gas and kill your friend Sandburg." 

"And you know this how?" 

"If I told you I'd have to kill you," Donovan joked, but his eyes were serious. 

Ellison looked at him, and Donovan could've sworn he saw a ghost of a smile cross the detective's face. "Gotcha," he said. The light turned green, and he pressed down on the accelerator. 

Donovan paused, and after a moment's hesitation continued, "I heard about the crash. I'm sorry…about your team." 

"Yeah." Ellison maneuvered the truck around a corner, his face suddenly set in stone. 

Donovan wisely dropped the subject. He knew well how a team, a squadron could become a soldier's only family when he – or she – was deep in a foreign country. And despite their rough first meeting, he wouldn't wish such a fate on any soldier's family as the one that had befallen Ellison's. 

Five minutes later, they pulled into a deserted campus parking lot, and Ellison turned the engine off. He unbuckled the seatbelt and was about to exit the truck when Donovan said, "Hang on there." 

"What? We should go see if Sandburg's in his office." 

"No, wait." Ellison looked ready to argue, so Donovan added, "Just trust me." 

Ellison glanced at him, then turned to the window and appeared to be searching for something. Donovan was searching for something, too – Frank Parker. If he weren't already there with Sandburg, he would be arriving soon. The truck faced the main entrance of Hargrove Hall, and Donovan doubted that Frank would be familiar enough with the building to know where the side and back entrances were. 

The midnight blue sky had shifted to cerulean, and the eastern horizon was now tinged pink. Time was moving swiftly. 

Ellison abruptly straightened in his seat and peered intently out the driver's side window. After half a minute, Donovan saw what he saw: a figure, a man, jogging across the university's vast lawns toward Hargrove Hall. Even before he registered the dark hair and navy blue jumpsuit, Donovan knew who it was. 

"Who the hell is that?" Ellison asked. 

"Don't worry," Donovan said, opening his door. "He's one of the good guys." He hopped out of the truck and sprinted across the lawn as Parker disappeared into the building. 

* * *

Frank Parker suppressed a sigh and said, "Just listen, alright? If I don't catch this Barnes woman..." 

"Barnes? Alex Barnes? Why would she want to kill me?" Sandburg asked, surprised. "Wait, how do you know Alex? Do you work with her?" 

Parker glanced at his watch again. They _really_ didn't have time for this. 

"And how do you know she's gonna kill me?" the grad student continued. "Wait, let me guess. A little birdie told you? Well, thanks, buddy, but no thanks. I'm kinda busy at the moment and I'd like you to leave, now." 

"No, I don't work with her." God! This guy was exasperating. Frank was just about to grab Sandburg by the arm and haul his ass out of the office when the door opened. 

"Yes, do tell how you knew I was coming here." The tall, slender woman moved her gun from one man back to the other – the woman from the file photo back at NNL. Alex Barnes. "Oh, do please tell. I like a good tale." She smiled pleasantly, but her eyes glittered, hard and cold. 

* * *

Donovan paused outside the building's main entrance and withdrew his gun from the shoulder holster beneath his tan blazer. Ellison pulled out his own weapon and checked the clip. 

Jim still didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was a practical man. This guy, Donovan, was in something deep, and it was unlikely that Jim would ever get all the details. But it was enough for him to know that Sandburg was in trouble. It had always been enough. 

In the few seconds that it took to draw and check their weapons, a gunshot sounded from within the building. 

Donovan and Ellison stared at each other, frozen for a single heartbeat, before they burst through the entrance. Donovan kept low and swung his weapon to the right, while Ellison swung his to the left. Nothing moved in the dark corridor, not that Jim could see, but he could hear. Voices. He motioned for Donovan to follow, and they ran quickly and cautiously through the deserted building. 

* * *

Frank Parker crumpled to the ground with a grunt of pain, propelled forward by the force of the bullet that burned its way through his back. "Oh, God, that hurt!" he moaned. _Note to self: fall_ _**gently** the next time you're shot._ With a shaky hand, he tried to push himself onto his back. As the pain in his back spread throughout his back and up the base of his skull, he realized with sudden desperation that there wouldn't _be_ a next time. 

A helpful hand reminded him that Sandburg was still there. He'd forgotten about him for a second. He heard loud, ragged panting, and it took him a few seconds to comprehend that he was the one gasping like a beached fish. 

_This is it,_ he thought. _I'm dying. Frank B. Parker. Dying. Here, on this cold, ugly tiled floor… What a waste…._

What was that saying? Life's a bitch? Well, in Frank's opinion, dying was a _hell _of a lot worse. 

He brought a heavy hand to the chain around his neck, reached under his collar, and wrapped his fingers around the tiny vial. The chip. He had to protect the chip until someone came looking for him – until Bradley sent someone to find him. Couldn't let Barnes get her hands on it… 

It was getting harder and harder to think, but Frank heard the pounding of footsteps – heard someone call his name – heard another set of unsteady footsteps coming from the direction of Sandburg's office. He tried to raise his head to see what was going on, but soon discovered that moving _at all_ was a really bad idea. 

* * *

Ellison was the first to arrive, and he absorbed the scene in an instant. 

Sandburg was crouched on the floor next to the same man who had run across the grass just two minutes ago. Alex Barnes rounded a corner and came into view. Her gaze was focused on the pair on the floor, and her gun was aimed at the heart of the injured guy in the blue jumpsuit. 

Jim opened his mouth to call out to her, but Donovan beat him to it. "Drop it!" he yelled. Alex looked up in surprise, and brought her gun up to bear on Donovan. Donovan fired, but she moved, and his shot only winged her. She lurched back, clutching her right arm. 

Alex dropped the satchel she was carrying -- nerve gas after all, Jim suspected – and whirled about-face. She dashed down the hall, gun still in hand. 

Donovan dropped to one knee beside his friend, who blinked dazedly up at him. 

Jim paused for only a second. "Chief, you all right?" he asked. Sandburg nodded, and Jim tossed his cell phone to him. "Call for help. I'll take care of Alex," he said. 

At this, Donovan started to rise to his feet. Ellison stopped him, though, with a hand on the shoulder. "You stay here." 

"Are you sure?" Donovan asked. 

Jim smiled tightly. "Trust me." 

Donovan stared hard at him and then, apparently coming to a decision, nodded once. 

Without wasting any more time, Jim ran after Alex, extending his hearing to track her movements. He followed her down one empty corridor after another, his keen sense of sight needing no illumination to see where he was going. He knew that she could probably hear his footsteps as well as he could hear hers, but he had years of practice and training under his belt, allowing him to distinguish between the echoes of footsteps and the real thing. 

Finally, he rounded one last corner and found himself in a dead end. Instead of the hallway continuing on, it ended, leading only into another deserted classroom. 

Alex was there, searching wildly for an escape route that was not to be found. Hearing his approach, she turned to face him, both hands clutching her gun. "You," she said, eyes narrowed. 

"Put the gun down," Jim ordered, walking slowly towards her, step by careful step. His own gun was held firmly in his right hand. 

Alex didn't put her gun down. Instead, she tilted her head to one side and said, "Ever since I stepped foot in this city, I've felt … I don't know how to explain it … somehow I feel connected to you. Don't you feel something, too? Don't you feel it?" Her gaze flickered to either side of him, then landed once more on his face. 

He _had_ felt it. Had felt drawn to her and repelled by her at the same time. But he couldn't tell her that. He wasn't even sure he was ready to admit it to himself. "Put it down now," he said again. 

"You and me, we're alike. I know it. You know it. Imagine…the two of us together." Alex brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes with her right hand, streaked with blood from the bullet wound in her upper arm. "Imagine what we could do with our powers. We could be_ rich_." 

"You and me?" Jim repeated, incredulous. He shook his head. "We're nothing alike." He tightened his grip and his resolve. "You're under arrest." 

"No!" she screamed, and she squeezed the trigger. 

As she fired, Jim dodged to the right and reached across his body with his left hand to pull the fire alarm on the wall next to him. The high-pitched klaxon instantly sounded, cutting through the silent halls. Jim automatically tuned down his sensitive hearing. Alex, however, was not quite as adept at it as he was, and she clutched both hands over her ears. 

"Turn it off!" she yelled. "Turn it off!" 

Jim ignored her pleas. He stepped forward, deftly twisted the gun from her grasp, and pulled her arms up tightly behind her back. Without that protection against the painful noise, she hung her head and tried to hunch her shoulders around her ears, pleading for him to turn off the alarm. After he snapped the cuffs around her wrists, he pulled on her hair to bring her head up. Looking directly into her stunned and angry eyes, he said, "Alex Barnes, you're under arrest for theft of a deadly agent, attempted murder, and God knows what else. You have the right to remain silent…." 

* * *

"So…I'm not dying?" Frank asked as he and his gurney were loaded into the waiting ambulance. 

Gripping Frank's hand in his own, Donovan smiled and said, "Not today, Frank." _At least I hope to God not today… But you did…_

Frank looked at him through squinted eyes and grinned weakly. "Oh, well then." 

Ellison and Sandburg walked over, and the four of them watched as the squad car containing Alex Barnes pulled away with lights on. Donovan studied Ellison's face, awash in the pulsing red and blue. When Ellison noticed the scrutiny and glanced at him, Donovan nodded. _Good job._

Ellison returned the gesture with a nod of his own. 

"Old poker buddy from Lima, huh?" 

Donovan turned to Frank. "What?" he asked, puzzled. 

Parker waved a hand limply in dismissal. "Never mind." 

"We need to go now," said one of the paramedics, and Donovan nodded. Another stab of fear jammed its way through him. Frank wasn't out of the woods yet. He'd taken a shot to the back, and even though the bullet was far enough to the right side that they didn't need to worry about a spinal injury, Frank still needed treatment ASAP. 

"I'll see you soon, Frank," Donovan called as the doors closed, shutting his friend from view. The ambulance rolled away with lights and sirens. 

Sandburg bounced lightly on his toes, hands shoved deep into his pockets, as he looked back and forth between Donovan and Ellison. "So, uh, anybody want to tell me what all just happened?" 

Ellison grinned and slung an arm around Sandburg's shoulder. "Well, he could…but then he'd have to kill us." 

"What?" Sandburg said, his blue eyes wide. 

"I'll tell you about it later, Chief." He turned to Donovan. "Can I give you a lift to the hospital, Captain?" 

Donovan glanced around and, seeing no other means of transportation, shrugged. He looked at Ellison. "Do you mind?" 

"No problem, right this way." Ellison gestured grandly towards his Ford pick-up. "And after we drop you off, Sandburg and I are gonna have a little talk." 

Sandburg's forehead wrinkled. "We are? Oh, yeah." His forehead cleared and punched Ellison in the arm with a light scowl on his face, as if he'd forgotten for a while that he was angry with him. "We are," he affirmed. 

Donovan smiled at the exchange. Sandburg and Ellison were an odd duo. He laughed. The same could be said about him and Frank. 

"What?" Ellison asked, pausing as he opened the driver's side door. 

Donovan shook his head. "Nothing." He smiled. "Nothing." 

* * *

Donovan put off touching base with HQ until the doctors informed him that Frank would make it. There wasn't any point in getting them all worried without at least giving them some concrete news, one way or the other. At least, that's what Donovan told himself. 

Shortly after noon, while Frank was being moved out of Recovery and settled into a private room, Donovan called Talmadge. In a moment, everyone was gathered in his office, and Craig was put on the speakerphone. He'd expected a barrage of questions, and he tried to answer them as best he could. Of course, a public payphone wasn't the best place to discuss time travel, so Ramsey, Olga, and Talmadge were on their way to Washington. 

When he hung up the phone, Donovan entered Frank's room, but hesitated just inside. The heart monitor beeped patiently; the green spikes that represented Frank's heartbeat formed a slow, regular rhythm. Frank was asleep, lying on his side. 

Donovan swallowed, and a sudden wave of nausea forced him to quickly deposit himself in a chair beside the bed. He closed his eyes and held his head in his shaking hands, drawing several slow, deep breaths. _Oh, God,_ he thought, and closed his eyes even tighter. It had been close today. 

He silently thanked God and science for giving him the chance to save his friend's life. Next time they – all of them, any of them – might not be so lucky. 

"What happened?" 

Donovan opened his eyes and raised his head at the weak voice. He hadn't even noticed that Frank was awake. 

"You were shot," Craig explained in a voice as strangely weak as Frank's. "But you're going to be fine." 

Frank shook his head slightly. "No," he said. "What _happened?_" His surprisingly lucid gaze pierced the dimness. "You…backstepped?" 

Donovan nodded. "We had to." He swallowed again and tried to put a light tone in his voice. "Couldn't let your sorry ass get killed." 

The room was silent for a moment, and then Frank asked, "What else?" 

What else? Of course, Frank knew there was something else. As much as everybody would have hated it, if the microchip and Operation Backstep hadn't been in danger, this backstep never would have happened. Frank would have had to stay dead. 

"Nothing." 

"My sorry ass isn't important enough to the NSA to warrant a backstep," Frank added, and both of them knew his words were painfully true. 

Donovan cleared his throat, trying to dispel the heavy atmosphere. "I hope you know, you owe Olga a fancy lunch," he said, changing the subject. 

Frank blinked sleepily at him. "What?" 

"You were supposed to take her to a nice restaurant. She got all dressed up and everything." 

"Really?" Frank wrinkled his forehead. "Oh, yeah, I remember. It was nice." He brought a hand – IV and all – up to rub his forehead. Donovan could tell his energy was fading. 

"And Ramsey missed you," Donovan added, keeping the conversation going – he didn't want to leave just yet. He smiled when Frank almost choked in surprise, then winced in sympathy when he realized how much it must have hurt. "Sorry," he grimaced, adjusting the pillow beneath Parker's head. 

"Ramsey?" Frank queried in disbelief. 

Donovan grinned. "He was absolutely miserable the whole time without you to keep him busy." 

Frank grinned back. "Tell the big…butthead…I love him…too." 

"Oh no," Donovan laughed. "I ain't telling him that. You can tell him when he gets here. He and the others should be here in about two hours." 

"Oh, God." Parker buried his face in his pillow. 

"Suck it up, man." Craig stood up finally and patted his friend gently on the shoulder. "You get some sleep. You'll need it when they get here." He smiled when Frank mumbled something incoherent. At the door, he paused with his hand on the knob and turned back. Frank was already asleep. 

Immensely relieved by the knowledge that Frank B. Parker – SEAL, chrononaut, friend, and nutcase extraordinaire – was once again very much alive, Donovan left the room, softly closing the door behind him.   


THE END 

If you enjoyed the story, or didn't, let us know! :-)   



End file.
